


You Become

by Moonstone369



Category: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Canon, Augustine - Freeform, F/M, Mystery, Romance, Season 1
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-10-22 21:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10705656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonstone369/pseuds/Moonstone369
Summary: In 1958, Enzo was the one to escape, leaving Damon to the Augustines for the next 40 years. In 2009, Elena's near death encounter on Wickery Bridge awakens the ability to see a literal ghost from her past-Damon Salvatore, Permanent Resident of the Other Side. An AU exploration of what makes someone real. Delena





	1. What is Real?

" _It doesn't happen all at once— **You Become**. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are **Real** , most of you hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby._

_But these things don't matter at all, because once you are **Real** you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand. Once you are **Real** you can't become unreal. It lasts for always."_

_Margery Williams_

Nancy greets me as I come off the school bus instead of my dad. It’s okay though. She’s my favorite of the ladies who work in my dad’s office. She gives good hugs and her pockets are always full of candies. When she takes my hand, there’s a foil-wrapped chocolate in it. I smile up at her and she winks at me.

"Your father's still with a patient, but he'll be done in a bit," she tells me as I follow her back behind the receptionist's counter. A small desk waits for me there with my colors and some of my favorite books.

I shed my backpack and my winter layers before sliding into the small chair and opening my box of crayons. I don't really feel like coloring though. The new coloring book I got for Christmas with the fairies and the mermaids is at home. I close the crayons and page through _The Velveteen Rabbit_ , resting my head against the crook of my elbow. I can't read it myself yet, but I know all the words by heart.

" 'What is Real?' the rabbit asked," I whisper to myself while tracing the watercolor illustration of a worn rocking horse with a reverent finger.

A distant but startling sound interrupts my recitations. I lift my head and search the quiet offices. Nancy is gone, the waiting room empty. I stare at the door that leads to the exam rooms and wait. Unpleasant noises sometimes come from that direction, and I hope this is just another victim of an unwelcome shot.

I don't like needles either, but my dad always says they're worth it to keep us healthy.

I trust him.

A scream draws my attention away from the exam rooms and towards one of the few places that keeps my night light in commission. The echoing wail is coming from the basement. I look around for Nancy or my dad, but there's still no sign of them. My stomach twists with the feeling I get when I eat too much ice cream. Something more pressing, an itching in the back of my brain, has me standing at the top of a staircase looking down. My little brother's face calling me a scaredy-cat urges me forward.

The screaming has stopped, but a different noise grows louder as I approach. The clinking of playground swings accompanies a strange smell, like roses—burnt ones.

I stop short of a door I've never opened. I know I'm not allowed. I can hear my dad telling me this is a _kid-free zone_. I believe everything he says, because my dad is my hero. That's also why I know if there's someone in there that needs my help, I have to try my best.

The swings are louder, and I can hear groaning. The cold metal knob is too big in my small grip but twists with ease in my small fingers. I'm greeted by blue lights and metal. The swings have stopped but the burnt roses and something metallic are leaving a bad taste in my mouth. The room is bigger than I thought. It's kind of like another exam room with a bed and tables, but sort of like a kitchen too. There's a sink and refrigerators, and I think that's an oven. I can understand why this is a kid-free zone. There are things at home in the kitchen I'm not allowed to touch or play near either.

I'll just have to be careful.

I step around some of the tables to see the rest of the room. I still don't know where the cries came from—or why they stopped. When I take another step, my sneaker splashes and clinks against something. There's a metal drain in the floor like in the locker rooms at the swimming pool. A pale pink liquid swirls around it.

I look up and gasp. The man's eyes that meet mine are wide—and blue. As blue or bluer than my friend Caroline's. I've always been jealous of Caroline's blue eyes because I think they make her pretty. Boys aren't supposed to be pretty.

This man isn't pretty, but his eyes are. The rest of him looks horrible. He's lying on a metal cot that's bolted to the white tile floor of what looks like a large shower stall. The floor and wall are bother tiled, and there's a large shower head directly above the cot. His shirt is damp and looks like it used to be white but is now mottled with pink and gray. Maybe his mom washed it with a red sock too. Dark curls fall over his forehead; a few pieces stick in what must be sweat there. His skin is gray everywhere but beneath his eyes which is as dark as a bruise. The only color in his face is the blue of his eyes and raw red lips. He looks sick—and thirsty.

"I'm Elena," I offer. Some people are shy around strangers; I know I am. The man with blue eyes blinks, and his lips part a bit. "Do you want some water?" He starts to smile I think, but winces instead. He looks at me and nods.

I look around with some urgency. There's a counter with a sink, but no glasses. Maybe I should go get my dad. I frown, apologetic, at the man before I spot them on a lower shelf I can reach. I cross him to open the glass-paned cabinet and pull out an empty beaker. I know from my dad that you're not supposed to drink from beakers, but an empty one seems safe enough. I've broken so many rules today that helping the sick man is the only thing that might make it worth it.

I open the cabinet below the sink and step up on the ledge it gives me. I can just reach the handles. I pull the cold side, fill the beaker half full and jump down without spilling any. I'm smiling with triumph at my cleverness as I turn back to the blue-eyed man. His smile is full this time despite whatever pain it causes him.

When I hand him the beaker, I realize why I was hearing swings before. Metal chains attached to cuffs around his wrists disappear behind his cot, bolted into the floor by the wall. His eyes follow mine, but he says nothing, just takes a painful swallow from the beaker and then another. He's holding it by the bottom because it's as far as the chains allow. He finishes and hands it back to me. I replace it with care in the cabinet where I found it to avoid getting into more trouble.

I wonder at the chains, but my belief in my father is absolute. I remember the duct-taped mittens I wore when I had the chicken pox or the plastic cone the neighbors dog had to wear after it got into a fight with a opossum. They were worth it—like the shots I hated.

"Thank you, Elena," his hoarse voice makes me jump, "I'm Damon."

"Does it hurt?" I ask when I look back at him.

He thinks on the question and answers only, "Sometimes."

Damon reaches with a clink up to a wadded material tied around his neck and rips at a spot it's already torn. He tosses it aside with the same triumphant smile I wore earlier.

"That's better!" he declares. I giggle, and he looks back at me with a smirk. His lips and the skin around them look better now. I feel good that I've helped him—proud even, but I know there are some things only my dad can help.

"Are you sick? Is my dad helping you? I can go get him for you." My triumph and his smile make me brave, reassuring me that I'm doing a good thing at least, if not something I'm supposed to. His response to this is jolting. I jump back at the anger that flashes across his face. Like a cartoon character, fire leaks in around his bright eyes. The dark skin below them seems to ripple; there's something strange about the way he clenches his teeth.

For the first time since convincing myself that I've been silly to be scared of the basement, I'm afraid. This seems to dawn on Damon because the strangeness of his features falls away along with his anger. He replaces it with regret, but now that I've seen it, the secret menace behind his eyes won't go away. I realize with embarrassed shame that there are tears running down my cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Damon offers. He looks as though he means it, "I didn't mean to scare you, Elena."

"It's okay," I manage with more whimper in my voice than I would like.

"So the Doc is your dad, huh?" A grin and a half cover his face now. I nod and smile a little in return. "I bet he helps a lot of sick people—your dad." I nod again and smile wider. I've always been proud of my dad, but there's something tired and sad in the way Damon says it.

"Not you?" I find myself asking.

He smiles again. "I thought I scared all of the words out of you." I blush as Damon shakes his head and sighs. "No, I'm not sick," he breathes, "but I have something special in my blood that helps other sick people. The Doc wants to help them so he pokes and prods me all day."

"With needles?" I grimace in commiseration. This makes Damon laugh a little.

"Yeah," he answers and mutters, "among other things."

I smile sympathetically, "I don't like shots either," I tell him just like my dad would, "but it's worth it," because I believe. I can tell Damon doesn't really agree. "If it's to help other people, it must be worth it," I add but with less conviction

"Sure, kid," he says in a way adults use when they think I'm too young to understand. I furrow my brows in preparation for some standoffish indignation, but Damon isn't looking at me anymore.

He's glancing with nervous eyes at the clock on the far wall before turning back to me. "Look, Elena. You really shouldn't be down here, should you?" His eyes have dimmed, and he seems distracted, but his accusation is an accurate one. It makes me look down at my shoes. "It's been pretty nice—meeting you—but I wouldn't want you to get in trouble. Thanks for the drink, kid. You should get back to your book before your dad notices. I won't say anything." He winks at me, but it's not reassuring. He's trying to get rid of me—fast.

"Wait!" I demand with an indignant pout, "How did you kn—" but I'm interrupted by the loud gurgling of pipes in the wall and Damon's horrified reaction to them. With his face screwed up in terror, he flinches as if someone were about to hit him. He tries to pull his hands up to protect his head but is stopped short by his restraints.

"Damon?" I step towards him, confused and worried. "What's wrong?" I try to ask him. Before he can answer, the sound of water rushing through the pipe sends him jerking with violence against his chains. The water bursts screeching out of the shower head and rains down on him. My face twists in confusion and the rest of me freezes in momentary panic.

How can anyone be so afraid of a sh—

_Oh._

No. What—

_Daddy!_

I search the room for my father, because I don't know what to do. He always knows what to do.

Damon is screaming. The smell of burnt roses rolls off him in waves and crashes into me. But the roses aren't burning—Damon is. His skin sizzles where the water hits it and steam rises off his whole body.

His screams are strangled now. He's holding in his pain and looking at me like he's apologizing for being on fire.

_Daddy, please!_

But he doesn't come.

Part of me realizes that he did this.

_Why?!_

He's not coming.

No one's coming.

The fear that had been gripping all my muscles releases me. I shoot forward and do something very stupid, considering that there's every indication that the horrible shower will hurt me just as bad. That's not a thought I have time to have before I'm leaping onto his chest to shield the burning man. My feet are hooked around his waist, my arms are wrapped over his head as best as I can manage, and I try to protect my own face by burying it in his neck. Damon is frozen beneath me, no screaming, no thrashing—just still.

Maybe I hurt him.

But I can't move.

I won't.

There's frantic crying coming from someone, wailing, "it's not worth it," over and over again.

It's me.

I'm still panicked and gasping for air when I realize the water has stopped. I'm warm but not burning, not like Damon. The water smells like the time I spilled my mom's bubble bath, but it doesn't hurt me. It only stings a little wherever I come into contact with Damon's still sizzling skin.

_Damon._

I don't think he's breathing.

When the water stopped, he put his hands on my back to try and comfort me. They're on my shoulders now—as still as the rest of him. I try to say something, but I can't, because I'm still crying. His grip on my shoulders begins to tighten. I'm relieved for a moment before it begins to be painful.

"Ow," I whimper.

Before I can do anything else, I'm being tossed backwards off of Damon's chest and onto the wet tile. I'm on my hands and butt in the puddle of pink-tinged water circling the drain. My chest pounds as I breathe shuddering breaths. I look up at Damon and choke on a scream. I slip and scramble to crawl away from him.

"Get out of here, Elena!" he growls, but it's weak and broken. I'm not as scared as I should be.

His eyes are filled with the fire now, all the way to the blue. The cheeks crawl with dark lines as if something lives beneath the skin. His lips are pulled back over bared fangs. Damon's eyes are the first to go back to normal after he winces in pain. He tries to swallow but chokes on it and coughs until he spits red over the side of the cot. His arms give up on their fight against the chains or against holding him up. He sinks in pain into the damp bed with a fresh hiss.

I begin to cry again.

"My dad did this," I keen, not sure if it's a question or just something I already know to be true. Damon looks at me, but says nothing. I shiver in the cold air, a stark contrast to the steam still rolling off of Damon. I stand up and start towards him, but stop when Damon snarls and recoils away from me. "Let me help you," I shudder. The weapon in his mouth is still displayed, but his other alien features are hidden.

"Your dad's not the bad guy, Elena. I am." He grits his teeth and his face starts to ripple again. His fangs cut into his raw-skinned lower lip. Red trails down his chin, and I can see it now—a monster from a movie Jeremy and I weren't supposed to watch.

Still, I take a hesitant step forward. I can't just leave him under the burning shower. Intense anger lights up Damon's face.

"Get out, Elena! Or I Will. Kill. You."

I believe it.

I believe it more than I believe anything my dad's ever told me.

I believe it, because it sends me running from the burning man in the basement back to the comfort of the lying one.

* * *

 

Waking up is like breaking the surface of a dark lake. I take deep gasping breaths, one hand clutching at my chest and the other dragging across my face. My eyes are open, but they're straining against darkness to find the wicker of Caroline's bedroom set. Instead, I'm remembering that winter day and the look on my father's face when he realized I'd been in the basement at his practice. I'd only seen it for a second before I was wrapping my arms around his neck, sobbing into his shirt.

"It's not worth it! It's not—" I had wailed, begging him to help the burning man. In the moments that followed he had been confused, consoling, upset and finally stern. In that first second though, the moment between the stairs of the basement and his embrace, my father had been terrified.

I'm not sure why I hadn't remembered it or realized it until now. I remember the weeks that followed where I was chastised for breaking the rules and reassured that Damon-the-monster and the shower that burned him were all a part of my active imagination. Over time, it became an anecdote about my penchant for fantastic fiction. None of that exactly explains my dad's apparent fear or why I am dreaming about it only weeks after the death of both my parents.

"Elena?" Sheriff Forbes' robed silhouette is standing in the softly lit doorway of Caroline's room. I sit up on the roll-away bed that's been my home since I left the hospital an orphan. From here I can see Caroline sleeping soundly. "Elena, honey. You okay?"

I know in this instance she doesn't mean the big picture sense, but it seems to be the only question anyone knows how to ask me anymore.

"I'm fine," I smile, though I'm not sure if she can see it, "Bad dream."

She nods and kneels down beside me, placing her hand in reassurance on my covered knee.

"Are they still as bad?" she whispers. "You were moaning about a demon and calling out for your dad. Do you want me to wake your brother before I go into work?"

"No, no. Let him sleep," I protest. If this has been harder on anyone, it's Jeremy.

"Okay, well it's early, but I'm making coffee if you can't get back to sleep and want to join me."

"Thanks, Liz." That's the best thing I've heard all morning even if it's only been morning for a few hours now.

"And Elena—"

"Hmm?"

"I'm here—you know, if you ever need someone to talk to." She means it, too. They all do—besides maybe Caroline who doesn't really know how to stop talking long enough to listen. It's nice being around Care more than anyone sometimes. She fills the silence without feeling awkward for monopolizing the conversation. The last thing I want to do is talk about it.

I smile, a little wider this time to be on the safe side.

"I'm fine, really. Thank you, though."

I'm gonna have to keep practicing that if I want to get it down before school starts. Especially, considering it may be a bigger lie than ever.

If I were fine, I certainly wouldn't be staring at the apparition of my first imaginary friend during waking hours. He wouldn't be leaning against Caroline's bookshelf in a leather jacket, black jeans and motorcycle boots looking bored and a little confused. Except, here he is in the almost light of day—Damon-the-Vampire.

If I were something resembling fine, I would scream. I wouldn't be trying to avoid eye contact with a figment of my imagination while grabbing the duffel that lies at his feet. I steal into Caroline's bathroom without a noise or a breath until the door is shut behind me and the knob pressing into my back.

This is _not_ what fine looks like.


	2. What the Water Gave Me

_Time it took us_  
To where the water was  
That’s **what the water gave me**  
And time goes quicker  
Between the two of us  
Oh, my love, don’t forsake me  
Take **what the water gave me**  

_**-** _ _Florence and the Machine_

 

_June 18th, 2009_  

_Dear Diary,_  

_So if I thought ignoring him and hoping he would go away would do anything to deter my hallucinatory stalker, I was disappointingly mistaken. Damon appearances have almost increased to a rate of one a day since seeing him over a week ago in Caroline’s bedroom. If this doesn’t let up soon, I figure having a log of my hallucinations (at least the ones I know I’m having—scary thought) will probably come in hand for those interested—like my therapist. And my roommate—the one I’ll have for the padded cell._

_Two nights after Caroline’s bedroom and coming home with Jenna, he showed up in my bedroom after I had that dream again. He seemed kind of annoyed, but I didn’t stick around. I sneaked into bed with Aunt Jenna._

_Sunday, two nights after that, he showed up again at my parents’ wake. The whole town showed up at the house to pay their respects. I got in some good practice at the sober ‘thank you’s and ‘I appreciate that’s. I spotted him in the crowd making obscene gestures to guests who of course couldn’t see him in plain sight. Carol Lockwood caught me giggling and had to ask if ‘I was quite alright’. I slipped out the back and spent the rest of the wake in the cemetery._

_That night, he appeared again in my bedroom. I was crying over my parents. He sat on the bed next to me with his arms crossed and his boot-clad feet propped up on my duvet. I glared at them for a while, but I checked the next morning, and there were no marks left behind. Because his boots can’t be any more real than he is._

_Monday, I left him humming a Taylor Swift song over and over on my way to meet Bonnie at the Grille. Now, I can’t get the damn thing out of my head._

_Tuesday, he was making funny faces at my teddy bear from his perch on my window seat, the one he pretty much occupied all day. At least he was quiet. I got some reading done._

_Yesterday, when he appeared at my window seat, I tried to pass the day in the same fashion, but when I pulled out Wuthering Heights again, he took to reading it over my shoulder. He criticized all my favorite bits, and I ended up throwing the book down and stomping out._

_Today, however; he has been unusually absent._

_I’m not supposed to miss a hallucination, right?_

_I’m supposed to be packing. Jenna wants to spend my birthday and the 4th at the lake house. But it won’t be the same without them._

_Nothing is._

* * *

A long car ride with an invisible fifth passenger only I can see—and am trying to ignore—is not what I had in mind when I thought I might be missing my insanity. Trying to talk to your best friend when there’s a 5’10’’ leather-clad hallucination singing his way through the radio between you is not easy. Nor does it make you look any saner when you lean all the way forward in your seat every time you want to say something to the other corporeal member of the back seat.

I’ve spent most of this torturous trip staring out the window and blaming it on car sickness. Which isn’t a complete untruth. Car rides, in general, have been much less comfortable for me since the accident. Still—I hope Bonnie doesn’t think it’s her fault. Stupid Damon.

I sneak a glare and a glance at him. He’s only humming now, which is an improvement compared to what he was belting out earlier. There’s a big ugly signet ring with some sort of crest and a dark blue stone on the middle finger of his left hand. It almost reminds me of the horrendous thing my dad used to wear. I can’t tell, though, because he keeps twirling it around.

I catch Jenna looking at me with the rear-view mirror again. I turn back to the window before she can get too concerned at my staring so intently at nothing.

“Ugh. This is taking forever,” my unwanted passenger complains. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, still facing the window. He’s leaning forward onto his knees. His eyes are narrowed at my aunt in annoyance. “Ever heard of an accelerator, Ginger? Cars have had them since the last time _I_ could drive.”

I’m not sure what he means by that, but I blush a little because I know Jenna’s been driving five miles under the limit since we left—for my sake. Even though I feel nauseous, I have to agree with Damon at this point.

But Jenna can’t hear his complaints. I look at her and then at my brother in the front seat. Jeremy wouldn’t respond to Damon even if he were real. He’s wearing giant headphones so he can drown out Aunt Jenna’s radio station and avoid the conversation none of us are having.

“Elena? Did you hear me?” Jenna’s watching me in the mirror again.

“Huh?” I manage.

“Is it too warm in here? You look flushed.” Damon falls back against the seat with a huff and his arms crossed over his chest.

“No, it’s just a little cramped is all. I’m ready for some fresh air.” I try to ignore the reason. Jenna nods and increases the speed a bit.

“We’re almost there.”

“Thank God!” Damon reminds me that he’s not going anywhere fast. I sigh and lay my forehead on the cool glass.

Everyone’s so worried. It’s exhausting. I’m not sure if I wish they would stop or that they would realize it’s so much worse than they think.

* * *

“I came downstairs and they were having coffee,” I can hear Caroline tell Bonnie from the hallway outside the room Bonnie and I are sharing for the weekend. Caroline was waiting when we arrived at the lake house. Her family has a lake house, too, not far from us that her dad got in the divorce. She’s spending the rest of the summer there with her dad and his boyfriend.

“I mean c’mon,” Caroline continues, “she decides to act like a parent because Elena and Jeremy are there? It’s not like she was even home half the time before, and now she’s coming home early and _cooking_.” I jerk my hand back from where I reached for the doorknob.

“Their parents died, Caroline,” is Bonnie’s soft-spoken response. Hearing that aloud makes my eyes burn. “She was just trying to be there for them until Jenna could get moved back.”

I can’t bring myself to go in now. If Caroline needs to vent, she should get the chance without my glassy eyes making her feel guilty.

I turn away and disappear down the stairs. Jenna and Jeremy are already outside, Jenna by the lake with a glass of wine waiting for a pizza delivery and Jeremy floating on an inter-tube tied to the dock under a pair of shades. I slip into the only bedroom on the first floor, at the foot of the staircase. Even if someone realizes I’m gone and comes looking, they won’t bother me if I’m in here. I forget, though, the rules of social nuance don’t apply to the dark, handsome, and imaginary.

Damon is here, in the one place I thought I might have a reprieve. He hasn’t noticed yet which seems weird in itself. Isn’t he supposed to be some grief-twisted part of my brain? Or maybe I’ve always been this way. The two explanations I have for the memory of that day in the basement are neither one comforting.

Either way, Damon is uninterested in my struggle. He’s leaning over and glaring at framed family photos on my parents’ dresser. He looks pissed.

I’m not sure if I should care what his problem is. Thinking about the implications of a person my mind may or may not have invented when I was six having independent thoughts and feelings is giving me a headache. I close my eyes and lean back against the door with a sigh.

I regret opening my eyes again. Not only is Damon still there, he’s turned his intense blue gaze on me. The rage and hurt there is startling and freezes me. There’s an accusation in his eyes that makes my skin flush with a guilt I can’t explain. The moment sense returns to me, I look down.

Damon cries out with low and animalistic ferocity. He lashes out at the photo frames. Though I brace myself for the crash, none comes. I trace the floorboards to his boots—I dare not look up at him. He’s kicking at air. For the first time since losing grasp on reality, I feel like I’m the one intruding on something private.

Voices outside on the stairs block means of retreat in that direction. My eyes fall on the closet. The door is open. The plaid jacket my dad used to wear to drink coffee on the deck on cold mornings is hanging on one of the hooks.

I must be responsible for Damon’s tantrum in some way. Something in me must be angry. At my parents? At myself? I’m not sure.

I step across the room and bury my face in the fleece of the coat. It smells like woodsmoke, but the comfort I seek is more illusive than a sense memory. I step into the closet where a large rack of my father’s casual wardrobe hangs. I wrap my arms around a large cluster of pullovers. The smell of my father more successfully lingers here but the lack of warmth and a satisfying heartbeat has an effect opposite of what I was desperate to feel.

“Aghh!” I cry as I rip the clothes to the floor. My eyes brim with tears. “What is the point, Dad!?” I yell at nothing. “What is the point of surviving if nothing matters anymore? Why survive if all I want to do is turn everything I feel off!?” I punctuate my outburst by slamming my hand against the wall that partitions my father’s recessed half of the closet from my mother’s. The wood paneling provides little resistance and answers the assault with a hollow echo. My body stills. I wipe tears from my eyes in order to examine the paneling closer.

My curiosity has quelled my anger but not my heartbeat. It feels as if it’s been injected with rocket fuel that at any moment might propel the organ out of my throat and free of my body. I dig blunt nails and shaky fingertips in between two panels. Interlocking grooves are the only thing holding them together. With some pressure the two slats come apart. Once I pull the panel away, the rest follow with relative ease.

“Custom skeleton storage,” a sarcastic voice drawls, “Must’ve been quite the selling point for the Doc on this place.” I can feel Damon watching me. His bitter sarcasm is both frustrating and welcome. He can’t be wrong. If my parents were the honest people I worshiped, I wouldn’t be staring at a padlocked door hidden in the walls of their closet.

I strangle the sound crawling out of my throat with my hands. I stumble backwards until I hit the opposite wall and sink against it to the floor. Pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them, I rest my left temple there so I can stare at Damon’s shins. A tear crawls over the bridge of my nose and falls into the other eye.

Everything I thought I knew is a lie.

The people who could give me the truth are dead.

The only thing that feels real to me is impossible.

Isn’t he?

* * *

 Today, I turn seventeen, but I feel a lot older than I did this time last year. I haven’t been back in my parents’ room since our first night here. The secret padlocked door remains unbreached, but the damage to who I thought my parents were is already done.

I want to know what’s behind the door. I want to look behind it and discover something silly or harmless—something far less shattering than I’m imagining. Only, I know this is a box I can’t unopen, and whatever I find may very well be worse. I may find more questions than answers.

I don’t know that I can deal with any more uncertainty in my life right now. Whatever questions the hidden room presents will go unanswered. My parents won’t offer any insights, any explanations or defense. My parents are dead.

The existence of the door is proof of some secret—of lies. Lies are far more certain than unanswered questions.

“Here, I won’t tell.” I look up at Jenna. She’s eclipsing the sun and handing me a sweaty bottle of margarita flavored wine cooler. I chuckle and take it from her as she sits on the dock next to me. I’ve had harder stuff at school sponsored events.

I wrap my swimsuit cover-up around the lid, twist it open and take a drink.

“Thanks,” I smile before setting it down next to my thigh.

“Your brother’s doing alright with the grill—better than I would be.” She takes a drink from a bottle of her own.

“Dad taught him.” Jenna nods and looks out at my two best friends. Caroline has taken up residence in Jeremy’s inter-tube wearing a pink, ruffled two-piece. Bonnie takes turns swimming between the two of us. Right now, she’s torturing Care with little spouts of water she produces with a skilled squeeze of the fist.

“You don’t want to get into the water?” Jenna asks over Caroline’s unamused squeals and shrieks.

“I am.” I lift my feet up to the surface of the lake and wiggle my toes.

“You know what I mean.” I do, but I’m about as keen on fully submerging myself in a large body of water as I am on car rides.

“It’s okay. This is nice,” I indicate by wiggling my toes again. She smiles and wraps an arm around my shoulders. I lean in and rest my head. She gives me a firm squeeze.

I glance at Damon from Jenna’s embrace. He’s stretched out on his back, staring up at a sky as blue as the eyes that observe it. One of his arms is hooked under his head like a pillow at the corner of the dock. The other hangs off the side, swinging back and forth in the water but never producing any ripples. If anything, his presence has increased since coming to the lake house. I can’t help wondering if my subconscious disapproves of my denial.

I sit up to look back at Aunt Jenna.

“Jenna?” I hedge.

“Hmm?” she hums in response.

“I know I’m still a kid and that Mom and Dad probably didn’t tell me everything. But if there were something important—I mean they wouldn’t have kept something like that from us forever?”

“Yeah, like whatever is inside the Russian nesting closets,” Damon scoffs. He’s been making similar comments since Friday. What’s more distressing is Jenna’s reaction. While a level of surprise and confusion are expected, the guilt is not.

“Elena—” she gapes.

“Eeeeee. Ew. Ew. Ew.” Bonnie’s screeches interrupt whatever it was Jenna couldn’t figure out to say. She’s jumped onto the dock from the side where Damon’s arm hangs off. She flings both hands around in front of her and shudders. “Something touched me—in the water. Ew. Ew.”

Damon is staring up at her with something like startled disgust and discomfort on his face. I don’t blame him. Bonnie’s grossed-out dance is happening in the middle of his abdomen.

“It was probably just a fish, Bon,” I smile as I stand and take her hand. “It is a lake.” I laugh and pull her toward me.

“I’m gonna go check on Jer,” Jenna dismisses herself. I don’t look back at her. I can’t right now.

“Ugh. Whatever it was gave me the willies.” Bonnie shudders again. I reclaim my spot on the dock and pull Bonnie down next to me. I dip my legs back into the water; she just crosses hers Indian style on the edge.

“What was that about? Jenna looked upset.” Bonnie takes up the rest of my wine cooler and finishes it off before setting it back down. She’s trying not to look too concerned, so I don’t feel uncomfortable. She has a lot more tact in these situations than Caroline.

“Jenna’s been great. There are just some things I realized I need to talk to my parents about. And now I can’t. I shouldn’t have said anything to Jenna. It just makes her feel worse.” Bonnie takes my hand.

“I know what you mean. I can’t really get any answers about my mom from Dad or Grams. The things I need to know they can’t tell me.” I squeeze her hand.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been much fun. I keep wishing this could be sixteen again. In love with Matt again. Happy and carefree again. Oblivious to the possibility that anything could hurt like this.” I let out a long sigh. Damon is sitting up on his elbows, watching our exchange.

“Oh, Elena,” Bonnie wraps her arms around me, “you’ll be happy and in love again, someday, but nobody expects you to be if you’re not.”

“Maybe not yet. Eventually, though, people are gonna expect me to move on,” I glance at Damon over her shoulder,” They’re gonna expect me to get better.”


	3. When You Walk Your Body Through Mine

_Do you think I'm sort of alive?_   
_Should I set these motives aside?_   
_Do I feel? Well sort of, but not_   
_**When you walk your body through mine**_

_-Silversun Pickups_

My room at the lake house is a lot emptier without Bonnie and Caroline here. The day after my birthday, they both had to go on separate family vacations of their own. Bonnie’s on a month long road trip touring colleges with her dad. I know the only college she's interested in is Whitmore, where her Grams teaches, but she’s pretty sure the trip is going to turn into tagging along while her dad ends up working. Caroline’s dad is trying to force some sort of bond between her and his boyfriend, Steven’s daughter.

In short, I’ve been left alone in a big room with no distractions. I’ve taken to sleeping with the lamp by my bed on. Which is why when I wake in a sweat from a dream about dark stairs and a flooded basement, I can see I’m not alone. That and he’s usually here when I wake from a dream about him—good or bad. What I don’t expect is to find him hovering at my bedside with a hand outstretched towards my face.

I climb backwards up against my headboard with a gasp but manage not to scream. Damon jerks his hand back. His face is stricken. I almost feel bad for startling him. I take my face in my hands and pull my hair back. The sweat keeps it from falling back in my eyes. Damon crosses his arms and walks to the foot of my bed. He’s pissed again. He seems to toggle between that and boredom. My subconscious isn’t very creative. Except for whatever that was just before he realized I was awake. Affection? I pull my knees to my chest and fold my arms over them. I bury my head in the cave I’ve created.

“Demon with her face,” Damon grumbles. I don’t look up. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for the girl that killed me? Huh? Is that it? She lost her Mommy, just like you, Damon.” His volume increases as he continues, “Is my death supposed to mean something because you got to live? I should’ve ripped your throat out just to see the look on his face. You can’t even face the truth, can you?”

I’m sobbing into the cavern, dripping hot tears onto my bare thighs.

“Ah, geez. Quit crying and just open the damn door, Elena.”

The way he whispers my name like a prayer to take away my pain might have something to do with me standing in my parents’ closet again. This time I brought a hatchet. I had to wait almost twenty hours, until Jeremy and Jenna decided to shoot roman candles off the dock. I stole Dad’s hatchet from the shed after I made an excuse about having a headache.

That’s how I find myself clutching a hatchet to my chest, staring at Pandora’s closet.

“You gonna use that thing or did you just bring it to cuddle?” Damon’s smart ass comment bubbles in my chest until it bursts out as a wail.

“Aghh!”

Guttural cries continue as they accompany blows to the wood around the hasp that secures the door.

“Hey, pay attention to where you swing that thing,” Damon complains. I pull back and breathe. A few of the blows landed at a distance too far from the lock to accomplish much, but it felt good. I wedge the hatchet in its own destruction and leverage the door until it cracks and swings open. Pride flashes across Damon’s face before he looks in at the dark room, and it falls away.

I drop the hatchet with a thud and step forward. I grasp at the darkness after finding no switch and find a string. An electric click illuminates any chance of turning back. The faint pop of fireworks continues outside.

Damon leans in the doorway with his arms crossed while I turn in circles in the small room. I’m not sure what I was expecting to find. Some sort of antique weapons cache wasn’t on the radar of possibilities. My parents were interested in town history, especially my mom, but I realize a lot of the weapons have modern handles and mechanisms.

The only commonality between all of them seems to be wood. Mounted at the center is a monster of a crossbow and wooden bolts to load it with. I trace my fingers along the wooden blade of a dagger. There’s a bow with wood-tipped arrows and some kind of flail with wooden spikes. Mostly, there are a lot of various wooden dowels and spindles sharpened to a point.

On the left, some industrial shelves house the only things out of place in a room where the theme seems to be ‘weapons to use against Magneto’. A bunch of leather-bound journals take up three of the four shelves. I grab one off the top and unwind the leather tie. It looks old, like it was bound by hand. This seems more in line with the contents of our attic at home. Why they’re locked up here, I have no idea.

The inside cover indicates Johnathan Gilbert of 1865 as the author. Maybe all of these journals, written by one of our civil war era ancestors, have some monetary value. Except that my mom believed that history belongs to everyone. She would have donated them to a museum or historical library before locking them away. I can’t make sense of any of this.

I flip through the pages of the journal before something catches my eye. ‘ _I knew I was about to die_ ,’ the elegant script asserts, ‘ _You can not run from a vampire_.’

I drop the journal with a sharp gasp as if it’s on fire. The small excerpt casts everything else in the closet in a new light.

It’s a horrifying light. While another girl might see strange fiction, might imagine her parents as participants in some embarrassing role-playing fetish, I can’t. I have the worst kind of evidence to the contrary—my own memory. I swing around to look at Damon with wide eyes.

Damon.

I sink to my knees in front of him.

A vampire.

I don’t believe. People grow old and die. That’s the world we live in, but I can’t deny what’s right in front of me anymore.

I can’t pretend a reminder of the proof hasn’t been haunting me.

“Elena?” There’s concern in his voice as he kneels down beside me. I stare blankly at his shoulder. He looks with confusion at the overturned journal. Silent tears streak unchecked down my face. My eyes sting from being open too long, but I can’t blink.

I start to remember his words from last night—his frustrated declaration that I couldn’t face the truth. I thought he meant this room, facing what was behind this door, but it was a truth I’d already known.

The truth is the burning man in the basement had been real. The truth is Damon was a vampire. Vampires are real. The truth is Damon had not been there of his own free will, and my father had not been his doctor. Damon might have been a monster, but my father was a monster of a different kind. The truth is—

“He killed you because of me.”

I’m staring up into his eyes. He freezes and his lips part. It’s the first time I’ve spoken to him, admitted out loud that he was there.

A loud series of bangs sound in succession and make me jump. I break eye contact. It’s the big finale Jeremy spent all of his savings on at the fireworks stand today. They’ll be back inside soon. I scramble to grab up the journal and a few more from the shelves.

“Elena?” I can’t look at him.

I clutch the journals to my chest and reach to click off the light. I move towards the door, but he steps in front of me silhouetted in the light from the proper closet.

“Elena.” I stop in front of him. My body believes that he is an obstacle, even if I know he’s not. His eyes shine and catch my own. “Elena, can you see me?” he whispers.

I look down at his chest. I wrench my eyes shut and step through him.

* * *

 

The revelations of the lake house have weighed on me all summer. It doesn’t help that pretending Damon doesn’t exist has gotten a lot harder. I’ve given up writing in my journal. My ‘Damon Log’ is hardly necessary anymore. The times he’s not around would be easier to track. With him always around, writing seems impossible. Without writing or anyone to talk to, I’m near to erupting. Jeremy and Jenna have been eyeing me as if I might. Not good, considering school starts again in a week, and I’m supposed to be okay by now.

The weeks that followed our return from the lake house, I poured over the three Johnathan Gilbert journals I’d retrieved from the closet. Most of it I had to read more than twice and not just because of the antiquated English and frenzied handwriting. I kept getting distracted by the look on Damon’s face as he scrutinized me. After his breathy plea in my parents’ closet went unanswered, he has repeated it on more than one occasion. For days, every time I would slip up and look at him too long he would freeze. His whole body would still; his eyes would narrow under his dark brow.

“Elena?” he would exhale, always a question. I would bury my eyes back in my ancestor’s personal musings. After a while, the questions ceased but not his expression. The flicker of hope, the desperation, and the self-doubt—every time he would resign himself to seeing things only because he was desperate to do so. He seems to question his sanity as often as I do. It’s a little too human, too authentic for someone I’m not convinced exists outside my own mind.

The only place Damon gives me any reprieve is at the cemetery which is why I’m here now. Damon’s here somewhere too, but like the last few times I’ve come here, he’s wandered off. He’ll show up again when I’m ready to head home, with his hands in his pockets and an uncomfortable look on his face. Though it’s a momentary relief, his void fills with everything else. I should’ve brought my journal.

I lean my elbows into my thighs and prop my chin up on my palms. The grass in front of my parents’ headstone is still a little thinner than everywhere else.

“What am I supposed to do with all of this, Mom?” I still don’t know how to talk to my dad yet, no matter how alive. “I mean vampires exist, and witches, and magic rings. And Damon? Dad did horrible things to him. Maybe he wasn’t human, maybe he was a monster that would’ve killed us all, but he felt pain—he saved me.” Tears are welling in my eyes again.

“God, I’m so tired of crying!” The thin grass is clenched in my fists. I stand in frustration, and the grass comes up with me. I throw it at the headstone and stomp off. I make a few strides towards the path by the creek and slow.

Cemeteries aren’t as quiet as some would imagine—not from my experience. There are always chattering squirrels and birdsong to fill the silence.

Except they’ve all gone. The cemetery is still. It makes my heartbeat thunder to the point of discomfort as I take a step to look around. A shadow moves behind a stone angel, and I gasp. My feet start to move before I can look where I’m going. The ground gives way to an incline by the creek bank. I stumble down it to where the ground is level, but the toe of my sneaker catches an embedded rock and sends my knee into the bark of a tree.

I hiss and grab the tree for support. Even with my jeans as a buffer, it stings pretty bad. I feel silly. I let some shadows scare me. At least Damon isn’t here to witness my humiliation. I pull myself all the way up and prop the treads of my lo-top on the trunk of the tree so I can roll my jeans up.

A few rolls later, I hiss again at the sight of blood. My jeans have streaked it all over my knee, so it looks worse than it is. The skin is only broken a little.

“Elena!” It’s not a question. My head jerks up before I can quell the reflex. Damon’s face is panicked. He’s staring at my bloodied knee, but there’s none of the strained desire from when I was a girl, only fear.

“Damon what—” His eyes widen as they reach mine. Damon’s eyes linger on mine before they flit to my right. He’s looking at something over my shoulder. The feeling that hurled me into the tree returns. Damon grips both my shoulders. I’m looking at his hands but I can’t feel them.

“Elena, if you can hear me, Run!”

I listen.

I don’t stop running until I round the corner on my block. Nothing is chasing me—that I can see. Johnathan Gilbert’s assertion that you can’t run from a vampire urges me onto the porch and through the door. I’m pulling in quick breaths. Once the adrenaline wears off, my knee begins to burn again. I wince and lean back against the door.

A moment later, someone barrels down the stairs. I open my eyes; Jeremy jumps the last two steps into the entryway with his sketchbook under his arm. He’s smiling, at least until he cocks an eyebrow at me.

“You okay, Elena? You’re bleeding.” I wipe some sweat from my forehead and look down at my knee. It does look pretty gruesome.

“Yeah, it’s just a scratch. I went for a run.”

“In jeans?”

“Yeah,” I try and laugh, “That was part of the problem. Where are you headed?”

“I’m meeting Sarah at the Grille.”

“Salvatore?” I try not to sound too interested. It’s not the first time this summer that I’ve heard that name. I never thought my brother would move on before me, but I’m glad he has a friend. I’m not much of a support for him right now.

“Yeah.” Sarah hasn’t expanded his vocabulary by much.

I want to keep all of this craziness out of his life. I’m trying, but the price of secrets about vampires and our parents is some distance between us. It makes me wonder how much distance our parents put between us and them for our own good—but they had each other. I hate being alone in all of this.

But I don’t have to be.

That’s a dangerous thought, because it makes me want to blurt all of it out right here. Except, the only hope I have of exonerating my parents’ memory is if they had a good reason for keeping us in the dark. The only thing worth that is our safety, which means knowing this secret is a danger I can’t risk for Jeremy.

The other option is that my parents were just shitty people who lied to protect themselves.

“Elena?”

“Hmm?”

“You better clean that up. It’s gross.” Jeremy scrunches his face up. I smile and cross to the stairs.

“See you later, Jer. Have fun.”

“Yeah. See ya,” he calls as he shuts the door behind him, and I begin a painful climb up the stairs.

Damon’s there when I reach my room. He’s standing facing the window seat with his forearm pressed to the wall above the alcove. He swings around at the sound of the door clicking shut behind me. His expression halts me.

“You could see me,” he growls. His panic and concern from the cemetery are gone. “You’ve been able to see me—hear me all this time,” he advances on me with inhuman speed. I step backwards until my heels catch the baseboard on the wall next to the door. “All these years!”

“Wait. What?!” I breathe. His arm is pressed through my throat all the way to the wall. It doesn’t hold me there—it can’t, but I’m frozen anyway.

“You killed me. You’re the reason I’m dead, and then you watched me hang around for ten years and never said a word.” Red leaks in around his eyes and the skin on his cheeks squirms. It isn’t real, but just as menacing as I remember.

“No,” I choke out as if there really were a forearm lodged in my throat.

“I avoided you—I did. I was afraid I was going crazy, but it’s only been a few months. I swear. The first time I saw you was in my friend, Caroline’s bedroom.”

He pulls back. The red leeches out of his eyes but not the anger. He doesn’t quite believe me. I understand. I couldn’t bring myself to face the reality of him either.

I step away from him to my bookshelf and pull my journal out from behind the ceramic mermaid. He’s facing me when I twist back around. I page through to the weeks after my parents’ deaths and thrust the open volume in front of him.

“Look,” I plead. He glares at me before looking down. He scans it, and I flip it to June 18th, to the log of times I’d seen him. I forget, until his eyes linger there, the complaints I’d logged about his absence. I blush and close the journal.

His eyes are still fierce when he meets mine again.

“What kind of hell is this?” he groans. I wince and look at my feet.

“I’m sorry.” The blood on my knee is caked and brown. “What was that? In the cemetery?” It’s the beginning of a flood of questions I’ve been too afraid to ask, but when I look up for an answer the room is empty.

Damon is gone.

 


	4. Shadows of My Yesterday

_I said you got me where you want me again_   
_And I can't turn away_   
_I'm hangin' by a thread and I'm feelin' like a fool_   
_I'm stuck here in between_   
_The **shadows of my yesterday**_   
_I want to get away_   
_I need to get away_

_-Cage the Elephant_

 

_September 7th, 2009_

_Dear Diary,_

_Still no Damon._

_I’m not exactly sure when the grace period passes before I can consider him a symptom—a grief-dream I’ve finally woken from._

_If he really were a guide, some manifestation of my subconscious sent to lead me to accept my parents’ death and their secrets, shouldn’t there be more closure. Shouldn’t something be resolved?_

_No._

_I’m not crazy._

_Not even temporarily. The only thing I have learned to accept is that the supernatural exists. Which makes Damon more Patrick Swayze than A Beautiful Mind._

_So, where is he?_

_Are there still vampires in Mystic Falls?_

_Witches?_

_Was there a vampire watching me in the cemetery last week? Other than the dead undead one I wish hadn’t stopped following me._

_Why am I the only one who can see Damon? What does that make me?_

_All of these questions would be a lot easier to ask him if he were still around._

_This is gonna make Junior year a lot more complicated. Today is gonna be hell, and I don’t know how to be ready for this. I had a plan, and it hasn’t changed much. I will smile. It will be believable. If a smile can convince them that I’m fine, that I’m much better, that time heals everything, then it shouldn’t be that hard to shove ‘No, I’m not looking for the ghost of a vampire my dad tortured and killed instead of listening to what you’re saying’ in there somewhere._

_If I can convince them of all of that, then maybe I can convince myself that not seeing Damon is a good thing. Maybe he’s moved past whatever was keeping him here._

* * *

I close my journal over top my pen and stuff it in the messenger bag I packed for school last night. I glance over at the window seat. It’s where I usually write, but I’ve left it vacant for the last week.

No reason.

I catch the time from the clock on my bedside table and grimace. I’m already later than I should be. This is not going to help the success rate of my ‘much better, thank you’s. Damn. Bonnie’s probably waiting for me. If I’d been writing in my window seat like normal, I would’ve seen her.

I stop in front of my vanity to check myself. I practice my smile a few times. Still sad—but optimistic. The girl in the mirror is fresh-faced with wide eyes. Her top is a feminine but modest v-neck blouse in a bold red-orange and with a low neckline picked in specific to help distract from any less-than-fine facial expressions. A white, lace camisole keeps it from violating dress code. Distraction is her friend; attention is not.

I tuck some of her long, flat-ironed hair behind her ears and smile again. She smiles back.

“I’m fine,” she says, “much better.”

She fades out of focus. My family stares back at me in her place from photos tacked to the frame of the mirror. There’s a snapshot from a family game night long passed. It was my mom’s favorite picture of the four of us, and a larger copy sits in a frame, on my parents’ dresser, at the lakehouse.

A knock brings me back to the sense of urgency I _should_ have. Right. I’m late.

“Elena?” Bonnie smiles from the crack in the doorway she made after not receiving an answer. I sling my bag over my shoulder and grab up my phone.

“Hey, Bon,” I apologize with a smile. “I know. I’m late. Jer used all the hot water again. And I think he stole my good eyeliner. I had to borrow Jenna’s.” Bonnie snickers with me.

“No biggie,” her smile is still genuine, but her eyes are puffy, and she looks tired. “I overslept my alarm.” She hands me one of our over-sized mugs full of black coffee.

“Thanks,” I moan. I take a few large swallows—it’s not hot anymore—and set the mug down on my dresser half empty. I wrap my hand around the strap of my bag.

“You ready?” Bonnie asks. She graciously pretends it’s not a loaded question.

“Yep,” I reply with an upbeat rise in my voice, and I follow her down to her Prius parked on the street after grabbing my jacket from the entryway.

Bonnie calls her car the Guilt Guzzler, because her dad bought it for her sixteenth as what she considers a shiny distraction from the fact that he’s always out of town. A bribe she accepted with glee. It’s a cute, little, blue hybrid—fuel efficient, good for the environment, compact. It suits her.

No one has questioned our plan to carpool. I haven’t driven much this summer despite the fact that I now own two cars—my Escape and the vintage super sport covered and tucked away in the garage. Neither of them feel right anymore. The one time I got behind the wheel of my SUV since the accident it felt like I was piloting a small yacht. The Camaro would be the antithesis of my plan to avoid unnecessary attention—the memories attached wouldn’t be helpful either.

No. This is the better option for now.

I slide into the front passenger seat with my bag and pull the door closed behind me. Bonnie’s seatbelt clicks a moment after I secure mine. She smiles at me as she twists the key in the ignition.

“I ran into Jenna on her way to campus. She said Jeremy caught the bus.” She expects some measure of surprise from me. We both know my brother’s unpleasant history with Pamela the bus driver. I just smile and nod as she pulls out onto our street and heads in the direction of the town square.

“The first stop on our route is that old boarding house out by the Falls. The Salvatores live there,” I clarify for her.

“Ohhhh,” she draws out the word like it’s scandalous gossip. “Is he still hanging out with morbid-camera-girl?”

“Sarah,” I correct.

“Mmmm,” she acknowledges and then launches into complaints about her summer road trip.

I look out at Main Street and the passing staples of my childhood—the church, the hardware store, my dad’s favorite restaurant. It’s all so innocuous and perfect, not the sort of place you’d expect to find vampires locked in basements. Before my parents died, I thought nothing bad ever happened here.

“—And then I lost my virginity to the entire football team.” I jump when Bonnie shouts my name.

“I’m sorry. I spaced again. What were you saying about the football team?” She glances back and forth between me and the road.

“Oh, you know . . .” She trails off in a coy prompt to get me to think about it.

“Right—” I concentrate on remembering what I was listening to only peripherally. “—something about weird dreams?”

“Ding. Ding.” She celebrates my success instead of making me feel bad. “Besides the football team, which I’m pretty sure was just a normal weird dream, I’ve been having these other strange dreams—Grams says I’m psychic . . .” There’s something nervous underneath her joking tone. It’s unlike her. I see how tired she looks again, and an uncomfortable pang pulls at my stomach. Bonnie’s been her loving, goofy self, but I’ve been so focused on maintaining my good face that I haven’t been as good a friend as she’s been to me.

“Bon—” I hedge as we cross Laurel Avenue, but I’m interrupted by my friend’s startled screech. The car lurches, and the world spins around us. I brace myself on the dash and wrench my eyes shut. My mother shouting my father’s name rings in my ears.

Oh God.

I can hear water rushing in around me. My eyes snap open, but everything is dry. We’re stopped. It was only the sound of my own blood coursing underneath my skin. I take a deep breath and listen to Bonnie’s profuse and persistent apologies instead. We spun out maybe thirty feet into two vacant parking spots in front of my father’s medical practice.

When I look at Bonnie her eyes are wide and panicked. “Did you see that, Elena? I’m so sorry. I swear there was this bird—oh man, I think it was a crow—Did you see a crow? It flew right at the car. No. I mean it was probably just a pigeon or something. I’m so sorry, Elena.” She seems more freaked out than I am.

I didn’t see anything, but I don’t dare say as much. I manage a weak smile.

“I don’t think we have pigeons in Mystic Falls, Bon, but a crow maybe,” I chuckle. Bonnie nods, crestfallen. That was the wrong thing to say, I guess. I reach out and grip her shoulder. “Hey,” I smile, the first one in a while that hasn’t felt forced. “You’re psychic now, so you already know this, but we are letting the last year go. We are gonna find you a man, Fun Elena is going to make a reappearance, and this year is going to be awesome, Bonnie Hopkins!” Bonnie lights up at my enthusiasm. Even my own chest warms at the thought.

I look back at my father’s building as Bonnie pulls back into traffic. I can let this go. I can rebuild my life. Things can be good again.

* * *

After last period, I meet Caroline and Bonnie at the south bleachers of the football field like I have a vague memory of promising to do at lunch. They’re both toting their red and black Mystic Falls High standard issue pom poms.

Right. Cheerleading.

It’s the beginning of tryouts for the freshman squad. Now that we’re on the varsity squad, we’re supposed to take pleasure in watching the newbies fumble through shoulder sits and basket tosses. Just like we did the first day of tenth grade after we became senior members of the junior varsity.

Despite everything feeling different, not much has changed at Mystic Falls High School. All the classes are still only mildly interesting and hardly challenging. Mr. Tanner still thinks that the Civil War should comprise eighty percent of the history curriculum. The quarterback of the football team is still in love with me even if I did break his heart, and Caroline still has her ear pressed to the door of the MFHS rumor mill. The only difference that’s even remarkable is—

“—lives with his uncle and his cousin at the old Salvatore boarding house. You know who I’m talking about? The sophomore who takes all those pictures without permission even though she’s not on yearbook,” I can hear Caroline tell Bonnie as I climb to their riser. There’s a new addition to the class of 2011. The first one I know of since Savannah Davis decided to move from New York to live with her dad in the fourth grade.

Needless to say, Caroline is all over it. It’s nice to have something to draw attention from my half-hearted participation in their conversations.

“Elena!” Caroline’s spotted me. Bonnie turns to smile at me as I straddle the bench a step down from theirs. “You have three classes with him, right? What do you think, totally more my type.”

“I do?” I shrug. Definitely not the right answer, “I don’t know, Care. You probably know more about him than I do.” Caroline beams and Bonnie groans.

“Oh, c’mon. Just because you know his birthday and sosh doesn’t mean you get dibs,” Bonnie argues. She rolls her eyes so only I can see.

“He’s a Gemini and his favorite color is _blue_ ,” Caroline emphasizes the color as she leans over and flares her big, sparkly blue eyes. I tilt my head with a skeptical eyebrow raise and tuck the hair that falls forward behind my ear. Bonnie giggles. “Laugh all you want,” Caroline postures. “I’ll have him in coordinating colors by homecoming.”

There’s a gaggle of cheerleaders stretching on the track down below us. A few other students are scattered among the bleachers, devoted football girlfriends and underclassmen without cars. The football team is running drills on the field. Tyler Lockwood is messing around and punts a ball at the goal post. Tanner—half history teacher, half football coach, not especially skilled at either—blows his obnoxious whistle at Tyler and yells at him to get back to drills. By the time he retrieves the ball and is back on the field, the murder of crows that I now realize were his target, have reclaimed their perch on the horizontal yellow bar.

Leaning against its perpendicular support is a black leather jacket and the man with dark hair wearing it.

“See, Elena. I told you. Mystic Falls has some kind of infestation.” Bonnie’s followed the direction of my gaze but she can only see the goal’s feathered occupants.

The leather-winged one staring up at us is a ghost only I can see. He isn’t a grief-dream; he didn’t move on. My breath catches in my throat.

Damn.

There goes rebuilding my life—the one I had before, anyway.

“Elena?” I’ve stood without realizing it. “Where’re you going?” Caroline demands, indignant.

I sigh and smile back at my friends.

“I’m sorry, guys. I’m just really not feeling it right now.”

“But it’s tradition!” Caroline protests.

“It’s only been once since we were freshman, Care.” I should know better than to argue.

“C’mon, Elena,” Bonnie urges with a hesitant smile. There’s unease in her eyes that makes me frown with guilt. I did promise her Fun Elena, but it’ll just have to wait for another day.

The goal post is birdless again; they line the roof of the commentator booth now. Damon is turning a corner at the bottom of the bleachers. I jump down a few risers.

“You guys have fun,” I call back at the friends I hope I still have after this day. “I’ll catch you at the Grille later,” I add as a promise to them and also to myself. Things can be good again—handsome haunting or no.

“Wait,” Caroline stands with her poms rustling in her fists. “You can’t just—” Bonnie pulls her back down with a gentle tug on her forearm.

“Caroline, chill!” I hear Bonnie stage-whisper as I jump the last three benches between me and the front railing.

I reach the concession building out of breath. Between chasing invisible people and running from them, I can tell Caroline’s not going to be any happier with me come practice this week. I skipped cheer camp and spent the summer _not_ swimming. Uggh. I’m out of shape.

I choke up on my bag and round the corner on the exit I saw Damon take.

Why didn’t he wait for me?

Why did he? Why take the scenic route when he can just poof wherever he wants whenever he wants? He never bothered with stairs or doors when he was haunting my window seat.

Where is it he has to be that he’s making me pursue him in a game of hard to get? He’s dead. Twice. That’s not a game I’m going to win.

And BAM!

I’m on my ass in front of the men’s room. Ouch.

“Oh, man,” I wince and look up at the immovable object that landed me here. Whoever he is, he’s not the very-opposite-of-solid ghost I was looking to not crash into.

“Elena? Are you okay?” He’s almost as easy on the eyes, though.

“You know my name?” I ask, skeptical of the stranger whose outstretched hand I use to yank myself off the ground. He frowns in a wounded sort of way that wouldn’t be so effective in garnering my sympathy if he weren’t so damn pretty. “Sorry.” I offer him a smile. “We have history together, don’t we?” I’ve finally placed his face. Too bad his name doesn’t follow before I continue with, “You must be . . . Um—”

“Stefan,” he supplies. “And English and French.” His white teeth and moss colored eyes sparkle at me as he flashes what I’m sure is a perfect and charming smile.

“Huh?” I manage. Something else shiny has caught my attention.

“We have English and French together, too,” he clarifies. He gives the big signet ring on the ring finger of his right hand a nervous spin. It has a silver band and a blue stone, and I’ve seen it before.

“Nice ring,” I smile and meet his eyes. He looks relieved and acceptance hungry.

Shit. I’m being rude.

“Obnoxious, isn’t it? It’s kind of a family heirloom.” He twists it around and shoves his hand in his pocket.

“Salvatore, right?” I grasp at Caroline’s gossip. Why haven’t I been paying more attention all day? “Like the founding family? I thought Sarah and her dad were the last ones left.”

“Almost,” Is all he replies with his brow furrowed. I look down at my shoes, more than a little ashamed. When I look up again, he’s wearing a pair of sunglasses.

I try a genuine smile this time. My benefit of the doubt didn’t really survive what was in my parents’ closet, but whoever Stefan Salvatore is, his pain is real. And I poked it with a stick.

“Sorry about that. I have foot in mouth disease. I know how painful losing family can be.” I extend a hand. “It was nice to meet you, Stefan. If you’re looking for something I could show you the way. I’d be happy to.” My hand hangs lonely between us.

“No,” is his short and curt reply. He backs away, “I mean—I have to go.”

And he’s gone.

_What the hell?_

This day.

 


End file.
